


a single truth

by stelleappese



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Antisemitism, I suck at tagging don't I, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of past abuse, but the tiniest little bit of it, people being constantly bruised and bleeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 08:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelleappese/pseuds/stelleappese
Summary: Charlie has a doubt; Meyer tries to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while burning up with a fever, so I apology in advance if anything sounds weird.
> 
> The sentence: "Havi rittu ca nu tieni core" is Sicilian (or as close to Sicilian as I can get, SORRY SICILIANS I SUCK) for: "He said you have no heart." Gonna put this here so you already know what it means when you get there lol

Meyer buttons up his shirt, sitting on the edge of the too-soft bed of Charlie's suite. He's got electricity running through his veins, so much to do, so much to oversee, there's no time to linger.  
Charlie, on the other hand, is still sprawled in bed, completely mollified. Meyer would think him asleep, were it not for the insistent prickling sensation on the back of his neck telling him Charlie's staring at him.

“What is it?” he asks.  
“Nothing,” Charlie says, too quickly.  
Meyer turns to look at him. He likes the way he's looking at him, looking up from underneath those thick eyelashes of his, pouting a little. “What is it?” Meyer repeats.

Charlie blinks at him; he looks away briefly, then back straight into Meyer's eyes.

“I was just thinking,” he mumbles, making the sentence sound all squished together, “That I ain't got the words.”  
“You're worrying about the quality of your vocabulary?” Meyer asks, raising an eyebrow at him.  
“Shut up,” snorts Charlie, “Nevermind.”  
“Which words do you need?” Meyer says, as an apology, “Maybe I can help.”  
Charlie keeps pouting, but he's got that look on his face – eyebrows knitted together, biting the inside of his cheek – that tells Meyer he's still considering whether to speak or not.  
“I don't know how to say what you are to me,” Charlie finally says, slowly, as if picking each word with absolute care. He looks away after he's said it, and if Meyer knows him at all, and he does, he's probably already regretting saying it out loud.

“What you are to me,” Meyer says, tasting the sentence himself. Charlie's eyes move, but not on Meyer. He's listening.

 

***

***

 

Charlie is back from a meeting with Masseria, and he's restless.  
“Let's move that fucking table over there,” he says, taking off his jacket with poorly concealed fury and throwing it on the desk where Benny's counting money. Benny glares at him, but any idea of snapping at Charlie disappears when he meets Meyer's eyes. He mutters something between his teeth, gets up, and leaves.

“What did he say?” asks Meyer, softly, while Charlie rolls up his sleeves and struggles with the table.  
“He said thirty percent – will you give me a hand here?”  
“Just for the heroin? Leave that table alone. Talk to me.”  
“For everything. Let's move it over there.”  
“Charlie,” Meyer says, wrapping a hand around his wrist, “Tell me.”

Charlie gives up on the table. He runs a hand through his hair.  
“He said thirty percent for everything,” Charlie says.  
“Right,” Meyer says, tilting his head, trying to meet Charlie's eyes to see if what's not telling him is maybe hiding there.

“Havi rittu ca nu tieni core,” he finally says, more to himself than to Meyer.  
“I didn't get that,”  
Charlie finally looks at him. He reaches out, presses a hand against his chest. At first, Meyer thinks he wants to push him away, but Charlie's hand just rests there above Meyer's heart, spread open, its warmth seeping right through Meyer's clothes.  
“Doesn't matter,” Charlie says, after a few seconds, “He was wrong.”

***

“He made me dig my own grave,” Meyer hears somebody say. It takes a fraction of a second to realize he's the one who just spoke; it really sinks in when Charlie's eyes go wide, right before his jaw sets and his hands curl into fists.

He knows that look, Meyer, he knows exactly what Charlie looks like right before he kills someone.

Meyer should probably say something to calm Charlie down, he should try and prevent him from doing things that could mess everything up, but when he looks down at his hand he sees the ice wildly clinking inside the glass of water Charlie poured him, and knows if he stood up his knees wouldn't support his weight.

He flinches when Charlie grabs the crystal bottle on the coffee table and throws it against the wall, making it explode like a bomb; and Charlie probably notices, because he crouches in front of him, gently slips the glass from Meyer's hands, puts it on the floor, and holds Meyer's cold hands between his.

“Not yet,” Charlie says, “Not yet, but soon. Soon, Meyer. All right? I promise.”

“I know,” Meyer whispers.  
  


***

It's not a good idea, Meyer knows, the way Charlie's pressing him down against the bare mattress on the floor, the way he pins Meyer's wrists above his head, as if scared he will escape him if he doesn't hold him there.

“What if you regret this?” Meyer asks, breathless, turning away to avoid Charlie's kiss. He kisses Meyer's neck instead, tongue pressed flat against it.  
“Ain't gonna happen.” Charlie says, against Meyer's skin, his breath making Meyer shiver.

Oh, all of the things Meyer learns he loves. Charlie's thighs pressing against Meyer's hips; the way the shorter hair on the back of his head feels underneath Meyer's fingers; the curve of his neck when Meyer grabs the longer, curlier hair and tugs back. The way he grinds down, hands splayed against the wall behind them, teeth digging into his lower lip, eyes screwed shut.

The light from the street pours onto Charlie in slanted, glowing dots; his hair, in disarray, has curled into countless small, thick, perfect springs.

“Come on,” he says, when he opens his eyes and catches Meyer looking up at him. He doesn't need to say anything more, not when the rolling of his hips speaks so loudly.

Meyer sits up, he pushes Charlie down, slams into him, and Charlie just curls up against him, a hand against the nape of Meyer's neck, fingernails digging into his back.

Only hours ago Meyer wanted to punch him. He wanted to scold him like the stupid kid he too often acts like. Now he presses his lips against the blueish bruise on his collarbone and almost doesn't notice the stream of 'thank you thank you thank you' that echoes inside his head.

When Charlie comes, Meyer starts to move away, but Charlie wraps his legs around his waist and pulls him closer. He looks at him, dark circles under his eyes, his eyebrow split and still caked with blood, and tells him: “Don't you stop,” with a low, warning tone.

' _Mine_ ,' Meyer thinks, dragging his thumb against Charlie's lower lip before he leans in and starts sucking at it.

***

Meyer's mouth tastes like blood, his jaw aches, his knuckles burn. “I'm doing you a favor,” the older Italian kid, the one with the curly hair and the shit-eating grin says, “A tiny thing like you, how long do you think it'll be before some mick asshole makes you swallow your teeth?”  
“Only a Jew would take a beating to keep his lunch money,” another kid says, snickering.  
“Shut the fuck up.” snaps the curly kid, giving his friend a look that makes him shrink and take a step back.

He looks at Meyer again. “What's it going to be?” he asks, hands in his pockets.  
“Go fuck yourself,” Meyer says, slowly, spelling the words out loud and clear.  
One of the kids takes a step towards Meyer, but the curly one slaps a hand against his chest and keeps him back, then bursts into laughter. Both Meyer and the kid's goons stare at him.

He crouches down, holds out his hand to Meyer. He's still smiling, and what makes it even more surreal is how _proud_  he looks, as if Meyer's stubborn refusal to bow down to someone bigger and stronger is, in some way, a win that they both share.  
“I don't bite,” he says.  
“You also punch like my grandmother.” Meyer mutters. He takes his hand.

***

“What is _wrong_  with you?” Meyer hisses, sneaking out on the fire escape, throwing a blanket over Charlie's shoulders and wrapping it tightly around it. He hopes his parents don't hear him, and Jake keeps on sleeping.  
“I couldn't sleep,” Charlie mutters.  
“People actually freeze to death during nights such as this one, are you aware of that?”  
“I don't give a fuck,” Charlie snaps, then shoots Meyer a guilty look. A horse-drawn cart claps down the street. Somewhere in the block, a child is crying desperately; somewhere else, a piano plays. “I'm not used to it,” Charlie sighs.  
“Uh?”  
“Sleeping in an empty house.”  
“You woke me up in the middle of the night because you're afraid of the dark?”  
“Fuck you, Meyer.” grunts Charlie.

But Meyer does get it. He knows how comforting Jake's presence in their room is, the way he shifts and sighs in his sleep. How much the sound of his mother waking up early and walking around the kitchen contributes to making their house an actual home.

“I ain't scared,” Charlie reiterates, giving Meyer a good hard look to make sure he heard him. “I don't sleep that good, lately. You know. Since I got out.”

His words linger between them for a moment. Meyer doesn't know what happened while Charlie was in jail, and he isn't going to ask. He would never put Charlie in that position. But he would like Charlie to tell him. He would like to know who has to pay for it.

“Make some room for me,” Meyer says, when the silence is on the brink of becoming too heavy. He sits next to Charlie, wraps some of the blanket over himself too. He's close enough to feel the cold still clinging to Charlie's clothes.

It's all right. He will sit there and stand guard on Charlie until the light of dawn shoos away his ghosts.  
  


***

***

 

“If someone were to ask me that,” Meyer says, after a while, “If someone asked me what you mean to me, I'm almost completely sure I would tell them that I think there is nobody in this world I wouldn't kill for you.”

Charlie's lips form the tiniest 'o' when Meyer's words sink into his brain. For a long time, he's completely quiet. The wind howls outside. A thin, hesitant rain murmurs against the windows.

Then, when Meyer is about to get up and go looking for the rest of his clothes, Charlie grabs his wrist. He doesn't squeeze, just presses his thumb against Meyer's pulse and looks at him until he's sure he has his full attention.

“I love you too,” he says, then adds: “Don't leave?”

That last sentence sounds too much like a question for Meyer to even consider any other option apart from crawling back underneath the covers and let Charlie slowly and deliberately unbutton his shirt again.

 


End file.
